What If I Told You
by gingerwatson
Summary: "He doesn't let you in, and it's beginning to frustrate you now." A Sherlock who refuses to open up and a John desperate to help his friend.


It's late, the soft whirring of your laptop and the television playing to itself in the background the only sounds to be heard within the flat. Your flatmate is quiet, still, but that does not mean he's calm. No, Sherlock has been like this for days now. Days without a case but with no complaint from him. He simply lounges across the sofa and stays there, only sitting up when you force a cup of tea into his hands and request he take at least a few bites from your sandwich. He rarely does. And then he's back to thinking whatever that magnificent brain of his is troubling him with this time.

He doesn't let you in, and it's beginning to frustrate you now.

Neither of you have ever been the type to sit down and talk about your feelings in great depth, but neither have ever said it's off the cards. You feel you could trust him with your greatest secrets (the ones that he can't deduce from looking at you, or even your possessions when you're not there to stop him) and many a time you've come home (sometimes after one too many beers with Greg) and spoken to him about what's going on in your life that didn't include him. He never says much, but he's kind enough to listen, make you tea, then guide you to bed.

You wish he would let you in the same way, even though it's just not his style. Everyone needs a hand to hold, and you want to be that hand. You don't want long conversations about the innermost demons of his mind, just a few words letting you know what he's thinking, if there's something you can do. You know it's perhaps selfish to want him to give you such a personal part of him, but you figure it's not a lot to ask, and that you're just trying to be a good friend to him by letting him know he can trust you.

He does trust you, you know that.

However, he doesn't talk to you. He can tell you about fuck-knows-how-many types of tobacco ash, can reel off deductions about your clothes and hair and the kind of dream you had last night at a hundred miles per hour, he can insult you or compliment you and shock you just as equally, but he cannot go so far as to tell you he's okay, or tell you why he's not, and you can't help but feel robbed of that part of your friendship, the part where you get to care about him more than just being willing to kill for him or having his back at a crime scene.

Maybe it really just isn't him, or maybe he needs more time to let you in because he's never had this before, but either way it's still disappointing, and you watch him now as he shifts slightly, mumbling something incoherently and can't help but yearn for him. He's right there, all pale, perfect skin and curls that have flattened slightly from being pressed against the sofa for such extended periods of time, and you want to reach out and comfort him from whatever is clearly plaguing him. You want to whisper that it's alright, even if he doesn't want to tell you his problems, that you're still there, and it will be just fine because you're never going to leave.

You want. You really do want, and it hurts that you seemingly can't have.

He mumbles something again.

Your name.

_"John."_

Intently, you watch. He's fallen asleep, the day spent doing nothing finally taking its toll on him. His expressive face contorts into one of pain and grief, and it breaks your heart just slightly. His hands are clutching at the sofa frantically now, and you wonder desperately what he's dreaming. Whatever it is, it clearly isn't pleasant.

Carefully, you go over to him, sitting beside the sofa. You need to calm him down, so you raise your hand and let your fingers run gently through his hair. Already you find yourself smiling at actually being able to do something, that smile only growing when he relaxes into your hand and into a more peaceful sleep. You think you could stay there all night, fingers soothingly running through his hair, or smoothing away the lines on his face with a feather-light touch.

So you do.

It's only a few hours later when he wakes you with a soft shaking of your shoulder and a muttering of your name.

You ache.

Falling asleep sat on the floor with your neck bent so your head can rest on the hand of your best friend is decidedly one of the most 'bit not good' things you've ever done.

Slowly, you sit up straight, wincing at the twinges of pain in your neck and back. Strangely enough, when you look up and around to find him, you don't have to look for long because he hasn't actually moved from the sofa at all. He's still lying there, turned on his side to face you, eyes a mix of blue and green as he gazes down at you. You find yourself unable to look away from the searching look there.

He's trying to work out why you stayed.

"You were-" Your voice is croaky and you clear your throat before trying again. "You were having a bad dream, so I calmed you down, and then fell asleep. Didn't plan on doing the last part, sorry," you say, giving him the explanation he's trying to find.

A nod is all you earn for your efforts and then he's lying on his back again, eyes closed, hands pressed together and held beneath his chin. He's blocking you out once again, ignoring your now blatantly obvious attempts at comfort. Part of you wants to act like a kicked puppy refused the indulgence of a good long fussing over, but Sherlock would take no notice of that, and the most you'd get is a scoff and rolling of his eyes. No, you need to stick to your guns, and refuse to be pushed aside.

"Sherlock, please. You've been like this for days and it's driving me mad. I think I'd prefer you messing around with acid in the kitchen, at least I'd know you were yourself," you say, voice soft, warm, the edge of humour on things an attempt at coaxing him into talking to you.

It doesn't work.

You watch him some more, the frown line on his forehead, the downward dips at the corners of his mouth, the tapping of his fingers together. He is thinking, and you wish you could know what of. Seeing him become almost a prisoner of his own damn thoughts is not something you wish to witness, and he won't even try to explain. It's infuriating, yet you stay calm. Shouting will not help, it will just make him retreat further into his protective shell. You've never seen him be so...closed off, not ever.

Placing a (hopefully) comforting hand on his arm, you try again.

"I just want to know that you're okay, and if you're not, why not. It's instinct for me to care, and I know you don't like talking about your feelings, but I'm here and it's okay to-"

His eyes snap open, and he turns his head so his gaze is on you. It steals your breath, makes your heart skip, to see them looking so vulnerable and emotion-filled and not at all like the piercing, sharp eyes you're used to. He looks sad and scared, lonely and lost, and your chest _aches_ for him.

"Why, John?" he asks simply, his voice barely even a whisper. Your heart pangs again.

You're confused. "Why what?"

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, then opens them again. His hands fall away from his chin and each other, the rustling of his pyjamas a pleasant sound as he moves to make room for you, patting the seat beside him. You sit, and he turns on his own seat to face you, kneeling with his bum against his heels, head tilted to the side. He still has that same look on his face and you can't help but smile because he reminds you so much of an oversized, inquisitive kitten in that moment, all wide eyes and messy hair.

"Why are you smiling?" he enquires.

You shake your head. "That's not what you were going to ask."

"But I still want an answer."

A smile. Yours, but it's still a smile within all this confusion. "You look like a kitten."

That thin face of his tilts further. Your smile turns into a giggle. His confusion turns into small, baffled smile, and then he joins you in your mirth. In the end, you both end up leaning against each other, tears prickling your eyes because those giggles erupted into loud laughter.

Eventually, you both calm down. There's a new sense of ease and things are less awkward, and that's a good enough start. Sherlock is looking at you, the remnants of the laughter still visible in his small smile and softened eyes. You could get lost in that look, that one particular look that's on his face right at that moment and for a minute or so you let yourself drown in it, in the swimming colours of his irises and the dark lashes framing those perfect orbs. You know he's aware plenty of people find him attractive, and he's a fairly self-conscious man when he comes to his appearance, but you wonder if he truly understands just how beautiful he is. You bet he doesn't, and you're almost certainly right.

"You're staring," he comments, and you don't bother to deny it because you were fully aware and chose to do so.

"Mmm," you hum in response, and you're sure you see the corner of his mouth twitch up just slightly. Then it occurs to you that he never asked his question, because your announcement of him looking like a baby cat and the resulting laughter kind of got in the way. Oops. "You never finished," you remind him, and his smile falls as does his gaze.

He doesn't look back at you. His eyes stay fixed on his hands as he fiddles with them awkwardly. He's less kitten now, more shy 5-year-old scared to confess something to his parents. You're just about to say something else when he finally gathers the courage to speak.

"Why do you stay?" he asks quietly, and the question catches you by such surprise that for a moment you find it genuinely hard to breathe properly. You expect that to be it, but he continues. "I'm aware of the benefits our situation and...friendship have for you, I understand that the cases we solve together are beneficial to your health and feed your thirst for adrenaline, life and purpose, but I've reason to believe that by now, I've given you reason after valid reason to leave, and find those things elsewhere. You never do."

You're quiet for a long time. You both just sit there, him staring at his hands and you staring at him staring at his hands. You're trying to think of a response but you cannot think at all. It's baffling that he could be so smart, yet miss what's so blindingly obvious to everyone else you both know.

"I care about you," you murmur. _You're the reason I get up out of bed in the morning._

He smiles again, just faintly. "I am aware. You must do to have lasted so long."

"Let me rephrase that. There are plenty of reasons to care about you," you say with a smile of your own, to which he scoffs and you find yourself suddenly determined to prove yourself correct. "You helped me get rid of my limp, gave me a home, allowed me to be your friend. You complain about the inaccuracy of my blog but you bother enough to read it anyway. You sit and watch telly with me and you've even stopped insulting it so I can listen to it properly. You buy me beer when you think I need cheering up."

His smile has grown now, but he still looks doubtful and almost sad.

"You listen to me when I'm drunk," you suddenly blurt, and his eyes snap to yours.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

Clear your throat.

Look away.

Look back again.

"When I'm not in my right mind and I come stumbling through that door, spilling my problems and even things that aren't problems, you listen. You could tell me to shut up and send me straight to bed but you don't. You make me tea, you actually bloody make me tea, and you sit me on the sofa, and you let me lean against you and just talk. You hardly ever talk, but you're there, and then you take me to bed yourself and make sure I'm comfortable."

Your heart is pounding and you're not sure if it's the sudden change in atmosphere or the fact you barely paused for breath during that little speech. You reckon it's probably a bit of both. You also don't really care too much. He's not speaking. _Why isn't he speaking?_ He's looking at you like you're a triple homicide that Lestrade's just handed to him on a big, shiny plate with a nice serial killer for dessert.

"I believe there's a conclusion to that admission, John," he encourages quietly.

He's right. There is. You take another deep breath. It's not enough to calm your trembling hands or the heart that is trying with all its might to burst right out of your chest and into his hands where he can hold it for real, and you realise that he might as well because you're definitely and undeniably in love with your best friend and there is nothing else he could do to possibly have more control over your heart and mind and soul than he already has.

"My vulnerability doesn't scare you," you conclude, yet you feel that statement in itself deserves an explanation (not that he isn't already trying to dissect it word for word because you can practically see the cogs turning in his marvellous brain). "When I'm weakened and not entirely in control of my own body, you look after me. You don't even look after yourself when you're fully conscious of yourself and your surroundings, yet you keep me safe when I'm not. That has to count for something, doesn't it? I stay because I know you really want me to, and I know you care about me more than you care about yourself, or even your work. The fact that I need you doesn't scare you."

Part of you expects him to shut down and hide away again but he remains how he is, looking at you with more open affection than you've ever seen on anyone's face. It's an odd expression to see on his face since it rarely makes a home there, but right now the look of fondness and love has attached itself to the very pores of his face, allowing you to see him in an entirely new light.

You're seeing Sherlock Holmes as a child, discovering a microscope and chemistry books for the first time. You're seeing the innocence of him shining through, the raw surface of his soul breaking surface after years of being submerged beneath a hard protective shell.

He's more beautiful now than he's ever been, because he's letting you in. How tiny and insignificant you must seem compared to this perfect arrange of atoms before you, how ordinary and plain and utterly dull.

"You're anything but dull, John Hamish Watson," his voice says with a definite air of certainty, and not for the first time (and surely not for the last) he takes your breath away and makes your heart stutter. "And you are right," he continues, "it doesn't scare me that you need me so much. It'd be a huge contraction for feelings that I fully reciprocate to scare me, would it not?"

It takes you a moment to understand what he's admitting to, and then you're falling head-first into an ocean of disbelief with the sudden inability to swim to shore.

"I..." you try to form a full, coherent, at least partially smart-sounding sentence, but it seems your breath has yet to return to you fully and so you trail off and gaze at him instead, a look of _"God damn it you bloody idiot I'm in love with you"_ hopelessly plastered across your face.

Thankfully, you never complete whatever that sentence was going to be, because he's suddenly taking your face oh so gently into his hands, thumbs sweeping across your ageing skin, eyes roaming it as he looks at you for all the world like you're the most precious thing he's ever seen.

His head dips and his eyes glance to yours and then it's too late to go back because your lips are sealed together, and it's not a gentle kiss by anyone's standards. The pressure of his soft, plump lips against your thin ones is desperate, like he's ached for this his whole entire life. Those hands that framed your skull lead his arms around your body and clutch you to his chest and his kiss transforms until it feels like he's trying to use it to communicate with your very soul, trying to tell you all the things he's been too scared to all these years.

_Please don't go. I'm scared. John. Don't leave me. I want you here. I want you to always, always be here. My John. My dearest, faithful, loving, caring John._

_John John John John John._

"I love you."

Wait.

He didn't think that, and you didn't think he thought that. Those were actual real words that he'd spoken with his actual real voice and meant with his actual real heart. You bring the kiss to an unfortunate end but your faces remain close, breaths mingling together and foreheads touching and hands grasping like the tendrils of your hearts latching themselves to one another's.

You realise that you're desperate, too.

Chest heaving, you fight against the onslaught of emotions raging war inside your head and string together those few words that he longs to hear and you learn to say and that are too often used insincerely.

"I love you too," you finally manage to confess, and it comes out as more of a strangled sob, the underlying tones of it screaming out _"FINALLY!"_. You practically collapse against his lithe frame, needing to feel more of him against you, absolutely needing to have yourself pressed into him until it feels like you can melted against his body and be one with him.

And he catches you. Of course he catches you.

"I'm not scared either," you whisper, and your lips brush the skin of his neck just below his ear. You're snuggled cosily against him now, safe and home. It feels heavenly, making your belly fill with warmth like you've just had five cups of perfect tea one after the other.

"How so?" he asks, stroking a large hand up and down the expanse of my jumper-covered back.

"Of this, of you, of the fact that you need me as much as I need you. I thought I'd be terrified but I never have been and I'm certainly not going to start now. I just wanted you to let me in, and the only thing that's ever scared me is the thought of you never doing that."

He shifts, and a moment later his lips are pressing sweetly against your jaw. That is his reply, and it speaks volumes more than words ever could. Sherlock has finally let you in, and he can't guarantee that he'll be spilling his feelings left, right and centre but you don't require that anyway. Access to his heart and the things that both please him and scare him are the only things you're going to request, and he seems more than happy to give them to you and then some.

The kiss is also a thank you.

_Thank you for being here. Thank you for staying. Thank you for loving me when I'm at my most unlovable. Thank you for being my friend. Thank you for wanting to be more. Thank you for being unlike the rest. Thank you for being John Hamish Watson._

"You're welcome," you say, and kiss his neck in return.


End file.
